Cyclic Spleen

Every body go fast
Everybody slow down
Everybody climb a rock
Everybody climb back down

If I could open my wounds like a charnel
house door, and visit my ancestors, and sit
through the boring diatribe of the dead
I would learn absolutely nothing; the old
ladies are melting, the old men are thin.

You could smash all of your icons into
pills, take them daily, and you would
still be no closer to spirituality than a
pea – like wayward Adam’s looking
for homes or Eve’s in trees.

I am not the seventh son of a legend.
I am a latch key child, expert on father’s
confession, and Mother’s identity crisis –
a voodoo doll of inheritance, a pincushion
for their various habits.

The days pass like traitors exchanging glances
from one eye to another. Et tu Brutus? You
amongst the backstabbers trade your loyalty;
claiming innocence, like the commonest of
bystanders – living life without ceremony.

Every body go fast
Everybody slow down
Everybody climb a rock
Everybody climb back down